


The Notebook

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Second-Hand Embarrassment, crowley's a jerk and i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 11:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18030506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: Crowley did not, as a rule, tell Hell about his personal life. Admittedly this was less because he felt any compulsion towards privacy and more because he suspected Hell would not approve of the concept of him having a "personal" "life", but still. Shop talk stayed out of the bedroom, and vice versa. For the most part.





	The Notebook

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by an exchange in the Names For Sides discord *finger guns*

Crowley did not, as a rule, tell Hell about his personal life. Admittedly this was less because he felt any compulsion towards privacy and more because he suspected Hell would not approve of the concept of him having a "personal" "life", but still. Shop talk stayed out of the bedroom, and vice versa. For the most part. 

The thing was that Aziraphale was just so _easy_. It was almost ridiculous. Like the part of him that was on his guard against Crowley where wiles and thwarting were concerned completely shut down as soon as he had Crowley backed against a wall, or curled up on the sofa, or laid out in bed.

It wasn’t like he was sharing intimate details of the things he did with the angel with his superiors. Crowley had more decorum than _that_. It was more that being with Aziraphale gave him an occasional flash of insight into potential phrasings to use in the reports he was required to send Down There anyway, so he might as well make use of them.

He had started carrying a notebook with him for jotting down such occurrences. It wasn’t a diary. Crowley shuddered to think what a book of his thoughts about the world at large would look like, or how he would explain such a thing if anybody else ever happened to see it. No, the notebook mostly had dates and short phrases. More of a day planner than anything, really.

For example, the earlier pages had all been scribbled down during the years he and Aziraphale had been keeping an eye on the boy they’d believed to be the Antichrist. 10 April, 1983 had “lunch with A; wet shoes” and nearly twenty years on Crowley had no idea what event had precipitated “wet shoes” but he was fairly confident that at the time it would have had some specific significance to the Crowley that grudgingly put together his reports at the end of each month. Most of the notebook looked like this, little reminders to himself that would have seemed only slightly odd to the casual observer.

Some of the dates and plans in the notebook were connected with more important events, however, things that evoked powerful sense memories even in the present day, should he happen to glance back through them. Crowley had gotten a bit fond of having the notebook, actually, got used to carrying it around in his bag or a pocket. It was just reassuring to know he hadn’t left it anywhere, that was all. Be bloody embarrassing if he were to lose it or Aziraphale were to see it. Having it on his person minimized that possibility.

Or at least, it did in theory.

Aziraphale had him pinned against the wall by the stairs up to his flat, kissing him hungrily, Crowley responding in kind. He bit Aziraphale’s lip and felt the angel shiver and press closer, his cock nudging against Crowley’s hip. Crowley’s gasp dragged his sharp teeth across Aziraphale’s cheek and it was this that Crowley assumed was the culprit when Aziraphale froze.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured, a hand skimming across Crowley’s stomach, “do you have something in your pocket?”

Crowley blinked, focusing on Aziraphale’s lips as he pulled back slightly. “You know I don’t, angel, what sort of line is that?”

“No, I mean,” Aziraphale let out a little breath of frustration and slid a hand around Crowley’s waist, pulling the notebook out of the inner pocket of Crowley’s jacket. Crowley flushed and tried to school his expression into nonchalance.

“It’s just a planner.” He muttered. “Put it on the counter and—” he tried to resume kissing Aziraphale but the angel was raising his eyebrows.

“How long have you been carrying a planner?”

Crowley took the offending object from Aziraphale and vanished it across the room to the counter by the till, and made a mental note to pick it up as he left the shop later. “Couple decades now, actually, but is this really what you want to be focusing on right now?” He rolled his hips against Aziraphale’s, and after a brief hesitation Aziraphale’s hand settled back on Crowley’s waist, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief at the barely-averted crisis.

Several moments of fervent kissing later Crowley had a leg wound around Aziraphale’s hip and his arms around his neck, and in a blink they were in the bedroom. Aziraphale lowered him onto the bed and gave him a look that was so much fondness and barely contained lust that Crowley felt a little bit weak.

“Tell me what you want.” Aziraphale murmured, fingers working on the buttons of Crowley’s shirt.

A combination of curiosity and something he’d seen on the internet while trying to decide whether he could reasonably pass computer viruses off as one of his projects in his next report pushed him to respond, “say something dirty.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s collarbone instead. Crowley had just enough time to assume he hadn’t heard him or was choosing to ignore him before he cleared his throat. “Trollop.”

Crowley choked out a laugh and opened his eyes again, staring up at Aziraphale. “What?”

“I’m not— is that not a word people use?” Aziraphale had gone a very bright red and was biting his lip, and Crowley’s breath came in another sharp exhale that was not quite another laugh.

“No, angel, it really isn’t.”

“Well.” Said Aziraphale, obviously going for haughty and missing by a wide margin due to the fact he was still blushing furiously as he nudged Crowley’s legs apart. “I’m not sure what you want from me, here.”

Crowley, eyeing the way Aziraphale’s blush was spreading down his neck and chest, the way he was chewing his lip, the flutter of his hand against Crowley’s shoulder, changed tactics. “I want to know where you learned that ‘trollop’ was appropriately dirty to say in bed.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and Crowley could almost hear him mentally counting to ten. It made Crowley feel oddly giddy.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer by the back of his neck and whispered against the shell of his ear, “Or do you need me to give you an example?”

The angel shook his head, his curls brushing against Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley shrugged. Why Aziraphale so red and embarrassed was making Crowley feel so gleeful was a complete mystery to him but he fully intended to make the most of it while it was happening. He’d never been one to stop pushing before he’d gone too far.

“You don’t want me to tell you that I want you to call me a—”

“Shut up, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, very forcefully, and kissed him. Crowley shut up.

Several hours later, he made a note which had the date, the words “minor embarrassments” and an A. And if he put a little heart there as well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

 


End file.
